


I Will Beg.

by Bakuras



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Barduil - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3165506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bakuras/pseuds/Bakuras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If by a miracle he’s granted a choice, he will not love him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Beg.

**Author's Note:**

> This is really just a very short little exercise to try and stretch my Thranduil-muscles since I'm interested in rping him in the future to be honest. The result I was proud enough of to post here though!
> 
> This work may end up being my collection for where I post little drabbles like this, I haven't quite decided yet!

It was sort of cliche, wasn’t it.

The act of convincing himself that he felt less than he did.  Not even strictly in a _romantic_ sense - he was an _**ice king** _ walking in the skin of a woodland sprite, a bounty of flowers and berries draped like ivy atop flesh carved from the hardest block of it.  Where there may well have once been water - the lifeblood that could run through the elven cave and _pulse_ like a heartbeat into the soil and rock - there was now dry, frozen marble that would not yield, would not melt, would not be bent or plied.  A state so hard as that had only two forms: he would be solid, a fixed point of iron will as unyielding as the arkenstone itself - or a blunt axe would crack him down the spine and splinter him to shards.

The first time they make love he will not call it that.  He fights with the part of himself that _knows_ he’s incapable of pure, unattached physicality.  The bit of his mind that remembers the skin of the dragon-killer’s neck sucked into his mouth and knows that he has never known a pulse to feel so **_holy_** as it does under his dragging teeth is suffocated, strangled until it is as distant and unliving as the stories of his youth.  The memories, the realizations, the implication that this was about _so much more_ _than **orgasms**_ would be encased in ice and buried beneath the stone and soil surrounding the deepest roots in Mirkwood. 

If Thranduil _himself_ could not find his heart, his tenderness - how then could sorrow? 

He had broken before.  He had felt his insides gouged and gored and split into scissures that ran too deep for even elvish magic to erase.  The exposed flesh on the side of his cheek - the spots where the tendons and the muscle moved freely and his eye was rendered all but worthless - it was nothing.  It was cosmetic and arbitrary.  No physical mark or pain _save having his lungs dragged through the openings  between his ribs_ could rival what was slaughtered back in Gundabad. _  
_

To fall in love with a mortal was to seal and lock his fate.

His flesh would be reopened.  Wounds that had not even _begun_ to heal past the phase of scabbing would be torn apart.  Thranduil would break again, and this time he may not endure it. 

He will not love him.

If by a **_miracle_ ** he’s granted a choice, he will not love him. 

And for that miracle he is prepared to **beg**.


End file.
